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divine retribution

February 23, 2011

Was I taunting you about living in a frozen waste, a little while back? And telling you how snow is just something to look at now and then, around here?

Oh, dear.

*hangs head*

Because the minute I did that, I turned on the weather report and heard that a new storm was coming down out of the Arctic, and it might snow at sea level Friday night.

Well, I’ll believe it when I see it. It hasn’t happened yet, and you know how weather people are these days. It’s hard to compete with mass revolution, and vampires, and stuff.

We haven’t had snow sticking on the ground since the mid-seventies. 1976, according to the TV experts. They were showing pictures of the University of Santa Clara with snow. A place of which I am now an alumna, apparently, but that’s another story. For another blog.

I have a beautiful picture somewhere of the Mills oval covered with snow; I wish I could find it. I remember driving through the tunnel and coming out to solid white, in Orinda.

Anyhow, I went BLIZZARD SHOPPING. We can last for a week or more, if we need to. Till they, you know, dig out the tracks and get the supply train through.

No one else was blizzard shopping. They were just talking about the pretty snow on Mt. Diablo, and whether or not it was still there today. It’s been awfully cold, so it’s lasted a long while. We went up to look around sunset, and it’s definitely still there. A big black cloud was already sitting on top of the peak– the advance guard. More to come.

They do not have to walk to the store, however. I don’t mind lugging bags back and forth under normal circumstances, like the little draft animal I’ve turned into, but I’m not walking around on ice, not even a little bit. I no longer own those snow tire things you can strap on your shoes, or I probably do own them, but I have no idea where they are, not having used them in over two decades.

They’re under something somewhere, no doubt. Where they are welcome to stay. The mini-ice-age is not part of the global warming scenario for this neck of the woods, and when it snows again, thirty-five years from now, I’ll have no use for them whatsoever.

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